


Arm Candy

by Decepticonsensual



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7585534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Springer's a little worried about going undercover as Kup's new flame - and a lot worried that he's enjoying the experience just a little too much.  Luckily, Kup is there to reassure him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arm Candy

**Author's Note:**

> Charity fic to thank a very kind anonymous requester for their donation to UNHCR! For the prompt: "Springer/Kup, fake dating".

Springer lets the scent of greasy fuel and spent oil sink into him, steady him.  It’s a familiar aroma; low-rent dives and Wreckers tend to go hand-in-hand, whether the squad is there on a mission and looking for information, or on leave and looking for trouble.  There’s nothing particularly special about the casino in front of him now.  Traces of gilt on the door suggest that its owner had aspirations, once, maybe even before the war; however, those days are long gone, now, leaving the delicate decorations half-hidden under carbon scoring and knife scars.  Springer has a long history with places like this.  There’s no reason he should be nervous.

No reason – except that he’s not going in there as Springer.  Nor as a Wrecker, or an Autobot, or even a soldier.  All of those things risk raising suspicions among the NAILS and mercenaries who might ( _might_ ) just have the information the Wreckers are looking for.  No, a Wrecker would have no shot at worming that information out of them… but for an old drinking buddy of theirs from the days before the war, and his handsome young date, they might be willing to answer a few innocent questions.

So here Springer is, stripped of his weapons, decked out in little more than fresh paint and a slinky coat of polish, and the defenceless feeling is making his plating itch.  And then there’s –

An arm settles warmly around his shoulders.

Well.  That.

“Relax, kid,” Kup murmurs, lifting his cygar to his mouth and casually letting his hand linger there, muffling his voice so that only Springer can hear him.  As far as Springer can tell, they’re the only people on the street by the casino at this hour, but he’s impressed nonetheless by how effortlessly Kup slides into all the habits of infiltration.  “You’re wound tighter than a chronometer spring.  Not embarrassed to be squiring your old mentor around town, are you?”

Springer looks away and shrugs.  “Just – working undercover, you know?” he answers quietly.  “Not exactly my strong suit.”  He doesn’t mention that all of Kup’s little touches and appreciative looks – even if Springer knows they’re all staged – are proving almost painfully distracting.  Kup’s always been physically affectionate, but ever since Springer took command of the squad, his former mentor has taken care to hold back.  Even a simple hand on Springer’s shoulder has become rare.  And Springer understands the need to make it clear to all the Wreckers that he doesn’t play favourites with his crew, but he didn’t realise just how much he missed that touch; so much that the return of it is dizzying.

“Ha!”  Kup slaps Springer on the shoulder.  “Yeah, subtle, you are not.  You’ve always been the kick-down-the-door type.”  Springer’s about to object, when Kup draws him close and whispers against his audial, “Mech after my own spark.” 

Springer’s ventilations hitch. 

“Just – starting to have second thoughts about this cover,” he says, partly to distract himself from the way his spark is suddenly whirring too fast.  He pulls away reluctantly from Kup’s embrace, and spreads his arms.  “Any merc worth his salt is going to clock me for a fighter.  I don’t exactly scream ‘arm candy’.”

“So be fighter arm candy.  I’ll tell them you used to be a gladiator, and we met at a pit fight – the ‘Cons in there will eat that up with a spoon, and the rest will just roll their optics at me.”

“Why’s that?”

It’s Kup’s turn to look away.  “Got a type.”

“What, you like pit fighters?”

“Pit fighters, brawlers from the Dead End…”  Kup cuts a sidewise glance at Springer.  “Wreckers.”  He smiles wryly.  “Smart, scrappy fraggers who know when to break the rules.  Or break down a few doors.”

“Mechs after your own spark,” Springer says slowly.

Kup eyes him, and takes a long drag on his cygar.

Well then.  Maybe it hasn’t _all_ been staged.

Springer can feel the grin start to spread across his face.  “All right, old timer,” he says, looping his arm through Kup’s and squeezing, “take me in there and show all your old merc buddies your new gladiator boyfriend.”

Kup laughs, but his hand slides down to twine with Springer’s.  “You’re gonna be just fine in there, kid.”  That voice – warm and rough, like the feeling of a sun-baked asphalt road under your wheels on a summer day – takes Springer back to countless missions, and Kup’s voice on his comm link, talking him through bases littered with traps and crawling with Decepticon guards.  _You’re gonna be fine._ Springer can feel the last knot of tension in his chest loosen; he’s always believed Kup before, and he believes him now.

All he says, though, is, “Come on – the sooner we get this intel, the sooner we can find the right door to kick in.”

“You got it, sweetspark,” Kup replies with a grin.


End file.
